


221B-Consolation 2020 Drabble Collection

by Vulgarweed



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Appalachian AU, Jealousy, M/M, Medieval, Plague, Renaissance, Storms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:17:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23502730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: Collecting the drabbles I wrote for 221B-Consolation Fest 2020. Multi-fandom - but because this is a Sherlock-fandom-based fest, all drabbles are still in 221B format (221 words, last word starts with B)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 32
Kudos: 44
Collections: 221B-Consolation Fest 2020





	1. Drawing the Wrong Conclusions (GO, Aziraphale/Crowley, rated M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for @qtheallpowerful, who wanted Book Omens, A/C, jealous Aziraphale, wingfic, Renaissance.

“So who is she then?” Aziraphale asked. He missed ‘casual’ by a mile and wound up far snappier than he’d wanted.

“Who?”

“Her. The... _floozy...in the drawing.”_  
  
Crowley thought it was a bit much for Aziraphale to have a jealous fit in the middle of shagging Crowley, but he saw the opportunity and he took it. “Oh. Her? Don’t know. Some patron’s mistress. You should worry more about the artist. He got a little bit handsy when I let him sketch my wings.”

“You let a human see your wings? Why?”

“He’d been going on about designing a flying machine. Thought he might come off the idea if he saw how complicated they are. Didn’t work.”

“You didn’t let him touch them, did you?”

Crowley stretched out, purred, yellow eyes dilated like the cat who got the cream (or would, very soon). “Mayyyyybe.”

Aziraphale loomed over Crowley, his face at a level of menacing that an angel should just not be able to muster for sinful cause. ( _Learning from me,_ Crowley thought) “Not only fraternising, but giving away secrets,” he said. “Show me.”

The iron core of Aziraphale’s voice struck somewhere deep in Crowley, perhaps the last cell in his metaphysical body that still had some vistigial instinct of obedience. He arched his back and dark feathers covered the bed.


	2. Intervention (GO, Aziraphale/Crowley, rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (for @bluebellofbakerstreet, who wanted Aziraphale/Crowley, medieval, blasphemy)  
> Rated T. CW for disease/plague/Black Death

The stench of it. The shallow trenches. The smell of burning flesh. The burial grounds overridden. The constant screech of the cartwheels, and the wailing of the mourners.

As an Angel of the Lord, he rose above - though honestly he was quite out of practise in that sort of thing, and preferred his illuminated manuscripts. He’d developed rather a good hand of his own. He hoped he wasn’t about to be recalled - surely he’d have had some warning if this was the End of Days, as the mortals seemed certain it was. Pestilence had free rein of the world on his death-white horse.

Travelling mendicants, crying out for repentance, roaming village to village and spreading the word - and the Plague.

Aziraphale reached nadir recoiling from the touch of a beggar - starving and marked with the sores. Although he knew - _knew_ \- that his mortal body was a mere costume immune to disease, it was enough of a dumb animal to lash out unkindly at the fear of contagion.

His horror of himself made him look to the sky, and his heart was about to cry out in hateful rage at God, when he felt a sudden hand over his mouth.

“Leave the blasphemy to me,” Crowley said in his ear. “Can’t let you Fall too. Right now it’s too much to bear.”


	3. Riding the Storm Out (Sherlock, Sherlock/John, rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for @discordantwords, who wanted Bone-Fiddle-verse Johnlock caught in a rainstorm.

The mountainside shook with a roar. Over the ridge came the familiar sound of rocks and dirt crashing, rolling down the slope.

“Mine blasting...on a Sunday?” John asked, startled.

“Evidence destruction, you mean,” Sherlock snarled and started to run towards the noise. 

_This is nuts,_ John thought. _It’s two of us against a gang of heavily armed men with dynamite._ If he stayed close, though, he might have a chance of stopping Sherlock.

“Sherlock - wait -” John panted, fighting through the underbrush and trying to keep sight of Sherlock in the rhododendron caves.

Neither John nor the most observant man in West Virginia had taken notice of the fact that the sky had darkened prematurely, and the deep rumbling was not all explosives. Just as Sherlock emerged onto the grassy bald, lightning splintered a stunted hickory just a few hundred yards away. “Get down, you idiot,” John yelled, grabbing Sherlock by the coat and pulling him back into the woods. Rain surged in sheets, mixed with hail. John maneuvered Sherlock into a too-small space beneath a mossy outcropping of boulders.

“Well, they’re not keeping their powder dry,” Sherlock said wryly as rain melted his curls and dragged his hair to his shoulders.

The drowned-rat sea-god look was irresistible, and John tasted the rain from his mouth, huddling in their stony bower.


	4. Silence Louder Than Bombs (Sherlock; Sherlock/John, G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For @thetimemoves, who wanted Sherlock and John on the Tube when it’s stopped.

Sherlock had been mid-monologue when the tube carriage lurched suddenly, throwing him against John, who barely kept his grip on the overhead strap - built more for people of Sherlock’s height, he thought.

All around them, the commuters woke from their flat-affect stupor enough to murmur disapprovingly as the train stopped completely and the lights went out. John put out a hand on Sherlock’s side to steady him, instinctually. Sherlock’s eyes flickered around the car, assessing fellow passengers, then up to the dead lights; his ears registering the eerie silence of a normally noisy mode of transit.

“Power outage?” John asked quietly.

“Sabotage,” Sherlock said, nearly subsonically.

“Right,” John whispered. “So...what do we do….?” His voice trailed off. He’d seen something flicker quickly across Sherlock’s face. It looked almost like sorrow.

He recalled an empty carriage, stalled, unmoving. A bomb. Sherlock in terror, tears in his eyes, admitting a fatal failure. Sealing John’s fate as well as his own. When the truth sank in, finally - once again, John had looked Sherlock in the eye, and agreed to die together.

Sherlock was seeing his own cruel prank again, reflected in John’s eyes. 

John was texting Lestrade and said nothing - but he’d meant it then and he meant it now; for good or ill, there was no way to permanently break their bond.


End file.
